Page 132 of Anathema

“It seems you’re right,” he said over his shoulder, as he led me to the center of the room again.

“So, what do I have to do with the moon?”

He pointed to the corner of his own eye and realization dawned on me.

“The silver mark in my eye. And miszka?”

“Witch.”

“Moon Witch, you’re calling me. I suppose it would be fitting now that I’ve learned magic. Which, by the way, would be grounds for burning me at the stake, where I come from.”

“Mortals fear what they don’t understand.” He flicked his wrist, calling me to stand in front of him.

I nervously positioned myself where he directed me, which put my back against the breadth of his solid chest. Unlike the night on the horse, when encumbered by layers of clothes and the cold, the thin layer of soft leather allowed me to feel him as if we were skin to skin. “Do you think Rykaia was bored with training?” I asked, desperate for distraction.

“No. She tires quickly. Her power requires quite a bit of vivicantem.” He brought his muscled arms around me, the inked flames and scorpions a contrast to my smaller leather clad arms that he positioned out in front of me.

God, the smell of him–that delicious mixture of leather and cloves, but there was something else I hadn’t been able to pinpoint. A sweet, amber musk that watered my mouth.

“What’s vivicantem?” I mindlessly asked, trying not to lose myself in that exceptionally distracting smell.

“It’s an element.” As if oblivious to my struggles right then, he placed the stick into my opened palm. “Much like humans require certain nutrients for their bodies—iron, calcium, potassium—we require vivicantem for our blood magic.”

“But you don’t seem to tire.”

“I require less.”

“Will I require it, too?”

“It seems you don’t, if you’re willing to try physical training after learning glyphs.” He placed his scarred and calloused hand over mine. “Grip the stick here,” he said, sliding my hand down to the middle of it. “We’re going to start with a warmup spin.”

As he twisted the stick with one hand, he took hold of my other and positioned it to continue the full arc. “Then come under it again, grip, and over.” His arms flexed around me as he guided my hands over the staff.

Once I seemed to catch on to the rhythm, he released me and circled around to the front, watching.

“How long did it take you? Learning to fight?” I asked, awkwardly spinning the stick.

“Most of my life. I’m still learning.”

“So, it’ll be a while before I’m flipping this around my head?” I focused on my hand placement, determined to keep the staff in motion.

“Up the speed a little,” he ordered, ignoring my question.

I did as he asked, and with a slip of my grip, the staff tumbled out of my hands onto the floor. Both of us reached down to pick it up, our cheeks practically touching.

He stepped back and allowed me to retrieve it. Once the stick was back in hand, I resumed my twirling, faster and faster.

His palm smacked against the stick, bringing it to an abrupt halt. “Now the opposite direction.”

Irritated by his interruption of my perfect twirls, I frowned and set the stick into motion the other way.

“Keep it smooth.”

In the blur of motion, I fell into a trance.

“Faster.”

I upped the pace.

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